


ever fallen in love with someone

by 1000_directions



Series: aw bingo yes [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Punk, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Deaf Clint Barton, M/M, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 13:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18366893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions
Summary: Clint is just… nice. He’s just a nice guy. He has an easy, generous smile, and his humor is teasing and self-deprecating but never cruel. He’s non-threatening. Bucky doesn’t like people getting too close, but he doesn’t mind when Clint sits next to him on the beat-up couch they liberated from some dumpster three blocks over. He doesn’t even flinch anymore when Clint passes into his peripheral. It’s easy. Like he belongs there.(Winterhawk punks in love)





	ever fallen in love with someone

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[ART] Mandatory Punk Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387236) by [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB). 



> okay, i can barely even keep track of how many different bingos and prompts i'm trying to fill now.
> 
> mandatory fun day: punk  
> clint barton bingo: tattoos  
> bucky barnes bingo: recovering bucky
> 
>  
> 
> although this story was not specifically inspired by cb's BEAUTIFUL artwork, they fit together so nicely that we are linking them. look at her beautiful winterhawk punks standing in front of a graffiti wall!! go look at it, i'll wait!!!!

Bucky’s tour was supposed to end three months after Steve’s. But then his Humvee got blown up, and his life got shot to hell, and it’s all been a one-armed juggling act ever since. Some days, it’s all he can do to keep the balls up in the air. It’s tenuous and shitty, and it’s _hard_ , and he’s pretty sure it’s all bound to come crashing down sooner or later.

When Steve got home, Bucky was still living at the rehab facility in D.C., trying to figure out if he was ever going to tie his goddamn shoes again. He’s been on the waitlist for a left arm prosthesis, but his OT told him candidly not to get his hopes up, that the technology for replacement arms is decades behind the replacement legs, and he’s better off learning how to do things one-handed than to pin his hopes on some hypothetical chunk of plastic and aluminum.

So Steve’s already been settled in their new apartment for three weeks by the time Bucky’s ready to join him back in Brooklyn. It’s big for a studio, but it’s been illegally subdivided into three rooms, with the biggest one belonging to the guy who actually has his name on the lease. The smallest room, Bucky’s, is barely any larger than a closet. It fits a futon and a garment rack and not much else. Which is fine. He’s not going to find anything better on his budget. Even the reduced rent eats up most of his monthly disability check, and it’s not like Bucky has much stuff to bring with him anyway. All his baggage is the mental variety.

Being around Steve is good, but it’s hard. He saw shit over there, they both did, but it doesn’t seem to fuck up Steve the same relentless, insidious way it keeps fucking up Bucky. It’s barely a month before Steve has a boyfriend, and the boyfriend gets him a job at the company he inherited from his dad, and then Steve’s talking about putting the band back together, and Bucky… can’t. He can’t boyfriend, he can’t job, and he can’t band. They both came back from the war different from how they went over, but Bucky’s the only one who came back broken.

The band is called Rainbow Flag. They started in high school as a pop-punk cover band, Steve on bass and vocals, Bucky on drums, Brock on guitar. But Brock’s in prison now, and Bucky only has one arm, and Steve isn’t so interested in pop anymore. He has pink hair and a safety pin through each earlobe, and he talks earnestly, passionately about seizing the means of production and drafting the sons of senators to fight future wars. He should be insufferable, but somehow, he isn’t.

Steve went into the army with a lot of ideals, and they got sharpened against all kinds of shit that neither of them were prepared to see. Steve isn’t punk because he’s angry, exactly, but because he’s passionate and thoughtful, and he wants things to be better than they are.

Bucky, on the other hand, is punk because he’s _angry_ , and he needs someone to tell him what to do, and he doesn’t hate the idea of putting on a uniform, letting someone else decide what he’s supposed to look like. So Bucky falls in line with Steve’s new punk ethos. He’s felt so fucking aimless and worthless since leaving the army, and going through the motions gives him something to do. And at least it’s a better haircut.

“I bet you could still drum if you really wanted to,” Steve says softly one night, and Bucky stares straight ahead at the TV and pretends not to hear him. And when Steve sends him a link to a video of Rick Allen drumming one-armed before a crowd of 50,000 people, Bucky only manages to watch about thirty seconds before he’s shaking so bad that he has to turn it off. He loved drumming. He loved having an arm, even if he took it for granted at the time. Besides, he doesn’t think Def Leppard is very punk rock, so fuck off, Steve.

Steve doesn’t push any more after that.

A few months later, their third roommate moves out, and Steve takes over the lease and the big bedroom. Bucky stays on his futon in the closet, and they turn Steve’s old room into a den of sorts, and they reclaim abandoned furniture from the curb and scour the dumpsters near Goodwill for the electronics that even a charity shop wouldn’t want. And now they have a home, of sorts, which means Steve starts inviting people over to hang out.

Sam from the VA comes around most nights, and he brings a guitar with him. He’s ostensibly there for band practice, but he doesn’t play much, mostly just drinks their beer and argues with Steve, gets right up against his stubbornness and needles at him and tests his will. Bucky used to be that guy for Steve, but that guy is gone. It’s good that Sam is here now to be that for Steve.

And soon enough, Clint starts coming around, too.

*

Bucky likes Clint. Bucky really, _really_ likes Clint.

He’s physically very attractive. God, no, that’s almost too mild, too restrained. He’s fuck-it-all gorgeous, sexy in a primal way that makes Bucky’s skin buzz just from being in the same room. Half his hair is shaved close to the skull, and the other half is long. Sometimes he spikes it up in a mohawk, and sometimes he leaves it soft and loose. It’s beautiful either way. It’s fucking sexy as fuck either way. His eyes are kind, and he has an easygoing smirk, and he’s just hot, hot, hot.

He’s a good drummer. Rainbow Flag doesn’t actually play their instruments too much, for all that they’re allegedly having band practice three nights a week. But Clint is good with his hands, nimble and sure, idly drumming out something skittery and complex and perfectly on beat against his solid thighs.

He’s completely deaf in one ear, and the other one is hit or miss at best, compliments of his own time in Iraq. But he doesn’t seem fucked up by it. Doesn’t act sorry for himself. Shrugs it off like everything else and lives his life, and that’s. That’s really something.

And he’s just… nice. He’s just a nice guy. He has an easy, generous smile, and his humor is teasing and self-deprecating but never cruel. He’s non-threatening. Bucky doesn’t like people getting too close, but he doesn’t mind when Clint sits next to him on the beat-up couch they liberated from some dumpster three blocks over. He doesn’t even flinch anymore when Clint passes into his peripheral. It’s easy. Like he belongs there.

*

Tony is Steve’s boyfriend, and Bucky will tolerate him, but that doesn’t mean he has to like him. The feeling appears to be mutual. There’s an uneasy tension between the two of them, an unspoken acknowledgement that they each believe that Steve is theirs and they don’t relish the prospect of sharing him with anyone else.

Steve and Tony are arguing loudly about whether or not honey is part of an ethical vegan diet, and Sam interjects occasionally to pronounce both of them idiots, but Bucky is mostly filtering out their conversation. He and Clint are sitting on the floor, backs to the wall and knees pulled to their chests. Bucky is trying to remember how normal people behave around each other when they’re comfortable and relaxed and not a jittery mess of exposed nerve-endings, so he’s letting Clint hold his hand and color in his nails with a Sharpie.

Clint is wearing a black t-shirt with the collar and the sleeves ripped off so the whole thing is fraying and threadbare, and he’s got these rainbow camo cut-offs that expose the broad plane of his toned thighs, and Bucky looks at his quads and holds perfectly still even though his heart is hammering so loud he’s afraid it’s going to bust out of his chest and expose him. It’s innocuous, he knows it, but Clint is holding his hand. It’s the most action he’s had in years.

Clint’s humming something under his breath as he works, head ducked, brow furrowed as he concentrates, and it’s so endearing. It’s electrifying to have all of Clint’s attention just for himself. And when Clint flashes him a grin and then dramatically belts out the chorus, strong and bombastic and only a little off-key, Bucky feels alive in a way he hasn’t since before Afghanistan.

“Huh,” Tony says from where he’s sitting on the couch between Steve and Sam. “You’re not half bad. I bet you were actually a good singer before.”

And maybe Bucky only sees it because he’s looking for it, the way Clint flinches just the smallest bit, the way the light in his eyes dims and is replaced with one small wave of self-consciousness. And then it’s gone, and his smile is sunny and guileless again, but Bucky _saw_ it. And he hates Tony for making Clint doubt that he is anything less than fucking perfect.

“I think you’re a great singer right now,” Bucky says softly.

Too softly. Clint looks up at him inquisitively, and Bucky doesn’t want to say it louder, doesn’t want to involve anyone else in this moment. So he takes the Sharpie from Clint’s hand, and he looks around for something to write on, but there isn’t anything. Clint extends his arm to Bucky, and all his pale skin is a perfect canvas for Bucky to write _I think you’re a great singer right now_. His writing is shaky, he’s trembling so bad he can barely hold the pen, but he slowly, methodically gets the words printed there on Clint’s skin, and they both look at them, stark and irreversible. He can’t take this back. He’s exposed.

But the gentle smile Clint gives him makes him think maybe Clint doesn’t mind so much.

“Whatcha smiling about?”

Bucky jerks his head up and sees that Steve has left the couch argument and is now awkwardly looming over them. Steve does that sometimes, checks in with Bucky in social situations to make sure he’s holding it together okay, to make sure he isn’t spiralling and in search of an escape. Normally, he appreciates that. Right now, he wishes Steve would go back to the couch.

“Just thinking about how lucky I am to have so many thoughts in my head that I don’t have time to argue about honey,” Clint says, subtly crossing his arms in a way that covers Bucky’s writing.

“It’s important,” Steve insists.

“It’s really not,” Bucky says. He shakes his head at Steve and smiles a little, so that Steve knows he’s fine and doesn’t need any rescuing.

“Don’t expect me to share my vertical garden when it’s the only source of vegetables after the colony collapse,” Steve says sagely, and Clint flicks the Sharpie at him, leaving a black dot perfectly centered on his forehead. Steve rolls his eyes and walks away.

“You have great aim,” Bucky says, and Clint shrugs.

“I never miss,” he says quietly. He uncrosses his arms and looks at Bucky’s writing again, thumbing the dried ink of the capital I. After a minute, he lifts his hips a little to liberate the hoodie he’s sitting on.

Clint doesn’t have too much clothing, not that it’s any excuse for how Bucky seems to have memorized his entire wardrobe. But this one, he loves in particular. It’s a soft hooded sweatshirt, tie-dyed in various shades of faded purple, and the symmetrical pattern almost looks like a bullseye. Clint slips his arms through it and pulls it on, and when his head pops out, his hair is mussed and wilting. That’s why Bucky likes it. Clint’s edges get all smoothed out to nothing, and he’s just soft, soft, soft. Like a friend. Like a really good friend.

Clint touches his forearm again through the fabric, and his fingertips almost seem to be tracing Bucky’s words without being able to see them. And he stretches out his legs so that his thigh bumps into Bucky’s and he rests his head easily on Bucky’s left shoulder, and Bucky can just barely feel his warm breath against his neck.

Every wordless huff of air against Bucky’s skin is like a secret. Something small and intimate between them. Fragile like an unspoken hope.

Soft. Like a boyfriend.

*

It turns out Clint is technically homeless, “if you’re going to be pedantic about it, _Steve_.” He’s been staying on a friend’s couch for the last three months, but she’s getting a place with her girlfriend, and Clint needs a new couch to crash on. Steve and Bucky have a couch.

“Are you sure you’re okay with Clint moving in?” Steve asks Bucky for the third time.

They’re in Steve’s bed because Bucky had one of the nightmares he mostly doesn’t get anymore, which means they’re even shittier and more alarming when they do sneak up on him. They’re each wrapped up in their own blanket burrito, lying side by side in the dark, sharing one pillow. Steve needs to work tomorrow, so Bucky needs to let him sleep. They can’t keep talking about this, especially because--

“It’s fine, Stevie,” Bucky says. And it is. “I like Clint.” He really does.

“Just want to make sure you feel safe in your own home,” Steve murmurs sleepily, and Bucky is glad the lights are out, glad Steve can’t see the complicated emotions that are probably being broadcast across his face.

Because on the one hand, it means the entire goddamn world to him that Steve cares so much, that Steve is so committed to making sure Bucky is okay, even if sometimes he feels like Steve is smothering the shit out of him.

And on the other hand, some traitorous part of him considers the possibility that having Clint around might actually make him feel _more_ safe.

*

Clint doesn’t have many things when he moves in, just a duffel bag full of clothes, a coffee-maker that looks about twenty years old, and a sweet one-eyed dog named Lucky who likes to flop down on the couch and put his head on Bucky’s right thigh and roll over onto his side so his tummy is exposed for scratches.

Clint is messy. He’s clumsy. He’s grumpy in the morning before he has his coffee. He always forgets to grab a towel from the shelf before he takes his shower, and Bucky has accidentally seen his dick six times in three weeks.

Clint works a cluster of odd jobs, and some days he’s very busy and they barely see him, and Bucky is the one who walks Lucky and feeds him and makes sure he gets all the doggy cuddles he needs. And then there will be weeks at a time that Clint doesn’t have any work at all, and then he stays home, and Bucky feeds him and makes sure he gets cuddles, too.

“Tell me to leave you alone if I make you uncomfortable,” Clint says before sitting sideways on the couch and resting his feet on Bucky’s thigh, or sitting upside down with his legs draped over the back of the couch and his head against Bucky’s chest, or tucking himself tight against Bucky’s left side and nuzzling in so close that Bucky feels like he’s going to spin out of control in a good way.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Bucky always reassures him. “You’re awfully touchy, but I don’t mind.”

“Guess I am,” Clint says. “Didn’t used to be, when I heard better. I just like feeling connected, I think. Grounds me to my surroundings to have that contact.”

“I don’t mind,” Bucky repeats. He likes having Clint in his space. Clint is the only person who has touched his left shoulder since he lost his arm. He hasn’t let anyone else close enough to have the chance.

*

“Can you lend me a hand?” Clint calls from the bathroom one night.

“I can lend you exactly one hand,” Bucky says after walking into the room. Clint has his shirt off, and even though it’s becoming a normal sight for him, he still stares. Clint is so wiry and muscled, and he has tattoos scrawled everywhere and barbells through both of his nipples, and he’s so fucking attractive that Bucky can’t believe he’s real.

“Can you help me shave my head?” Clint is asking.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” It’s weird how unbalanced he still feels with just the one arm. Even things that he thought were one-handed tasks seem to rely on the symmetry of a counterbalance to keep him from falling over. He is not going to be responsible for cutting Clint.

“Just hold my hair,” Clint says, and he pushes his long hair over to the side, exposing the normally-shorn part of his scalp that’s all fuzzy with new growth. “Just keep it out of the way for me. Do you mind?”

Bucky reaches for Clint’s hair with a trembling hand, and he gently runs his fingers through the strands, holding them out of the way. Clint’s hair is just as soft and silky as he’d imagined it would be. He doesn’t know how he’s going to let go when he’s supposed to.

“Thanks,” Clint says quietly, and then he doesn’t say anything as he efficiently buzzes the right side of his head.

“Didn’t it used to be the other side?” Bucky asks when Clint seems to be done.

“Huh?” Clint meets his gaze in the mirror, and then he looks away. “Oh. Yeah, it was. Didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“Why’d you change it? Seems like a hassle.”

“Don’t laugh,” Clint says, chewing his lip.

“I would never.”

“Seems like I’m always sitting to the left of you,” Clint says with a roll of his shoulders, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. “And it seemed like my hair was always getting in your mouth. I can pull it out of your way easier now.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Bucky doesn’t know what to say.

“Sorry if that’s weird or too much,” Clint says hurriedly. “Sorry. Fuck. I told myself I wasn’t going to make shit weird.”

He spins around like he’s going to walk out of the room, but now that they’re facing, Bucky doesn’t want him to leave. He reaches out with his right hand and brushes Clint’s hair out of his eyes. And he feels himself seized by a perverse sense of confidence, like the ghost of a past self has possessed his body and given him the courage to fucking try something for once in his life, and he cups Clint’s face with his hand and runs his thumb along his cheekbone.

“Would it make shit weird if I kissed you?” Bucky asks, and it almost feels like someone else talking.

“Who cares?” Clint mutters, and he surges forward and pushes his hot mouth against Bucky’s.

*

Bucky already liked Clint, but now it seems like he is constantly discovering new things to like about him.

Clint knows all the best places to get good pizza for cheap, and sometimes when he’s been working a lot and falling asleep the second he gets in the door, he’ll bring a pie home, and he and Bucky will curl up on the couch together and split it down the middle (with one piece set aside for Lucky). And Clint will tell Bucky about his day without asking Bucky to talk about his own. And Bucky can just close his eyes and rest his head on Clint’s chest, and Clint plays with his hair and talks and talks and talks, and the words wrap around Bucky like a protective veil.

Clint understands Bucky’s bad days, because he has bad days, too. Sometimes Clint will stumble into Bucky’s room and shove him over on the futon and slip in next to him, and they’ll just sleep the day away, clinging to each other on the too small mattress. And they don’t have to talk about it. They can just be miserable together, supporting each other quietly without having to make a whole damn thing out of it.

Clint still never remembers to grab a towel before jumping into the shower, but sometimes he grabs Bucky and washes his hair with the expensive shampoo that Tony leaves under the sink that none of them are supposed to touch, and Bucky has seen Clint’s dick a lot more than six times now.

Sometimes Clint sings softly to Bucky after they fuck and before they fall asleep, and Bucky keeps his eyes shut tight and learns the Buzzcocks’ entire discography over months spent in Clint’s arms in the dark.

Clint is punk because he’s just himself, all the time. He’s just ferociously, purely the person that he is, and Bucky admires that authenticity. Clint has told him before that it’s not a choice, exactly, that he’d change a million things about himself if he could, that some days he’d die to be anyone else if he could just figure out how. But Bucky never wants him to be anyone else, not even for a second.

*

Tony and Steve are arguing about whether or not they consider Ani DiFranco a punk singer, and Sam is sitting there quietly with an increasingly unimpressed expression on his face until he finally says, “So y’all just don’t listen to any black artists at all, huh?”

“Do you ever miss drumming?” Clint murmurs into Bucky’s ear. They’re sitting on the floor like always, with Clint’s back to the wall and Bucky nestled securely between his spread legs, Clint’s arms draped protectively around him. He had a bad day, and being enclosed by Clint feels like psychic armor.

“I miss jerking off with my left hand,” he replies wistfully, and Clint snorts. “I mean, I miss drumming because I miss everything. But it ranks pretty low on the list.”

“I didn’t drum before,” Clint says. “I learned after.”

Bucky knows he’s talking about his hearing loss. He’s always been idly curious about it, but Clint’s never brought it up before, so Bucky’s never asked. Clint is a better drummer than Bucky ever was, technical and passionate in equal measure. When he aims for the beat, he never misses, and he slays it with a certain panache that Bucky never had.

“How do you drum if you can’t hear the other instruments?”

“I don’t have to hear them,” Clint says with a shrug. “They just have to hear me.”

And that’s it, isn’t it? Clint keeps his own beat, consistent to himself, and the burden is on everyone else to keep up or not. To match him or not.

Bucky cranes his neck over his shoulder to make sure Clint can see when he says, “I think I love you.” And the angle is murder on his neck muscles, but when a delighted grin splits Clint’s face, Bucky can’t look away.

*

Clint has a pierced tongue. Bucky has, of course, known this. But he’s never known it quite as intimately as he does right now when he’s trying to sit on Clint’s face to ride his tongue.

Clint is amazing with his tongue. He’s fucking _amazing_ with his tongue, Jesus. The issue, of course, is that when Bucky is on his knees hovering precariously over Clint’s face, he can barely hold his balance.

He has his forearm pressed to the wall and his eyes squeezed shut, and his whole body shudders each time Clint uses his barbell to tug at his rim. He whimpers as Clint lazily jacks his cock, and then he feels himself start to slide to one side. He tries to tense his thighs and use his elbow to right himself, but he doesn’t feel steady. And he can’t focus on the delicious tease of Clint’s talented mouth when he’s so worried that he’s going to fucking fall on his face.

“Why so quiet?” Clint murmurs, and Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh.

“I think we have to stop,” he says reluctantly. “Clint, I’m gonna fall. I can’t.”

“Hang on,” Clint mutters, and he presses a lingering kiss to Bucky’s inner thigh as his arms snake up and around his hips, holding him securely in place. “Is that better? We can stop if it’s not, I can lay you out on your back and take my time with you.”

“Lemme see,” Bucky says cautiously. He leans experimentally to one side, but before he can move anywhere, he feels Clint’s strong arms catching him and guiding him back to upright, holding him firmly, safely in place.

“I’ve got you,” Clint says. “I’m not gonna let you fall, babe.”

“Okay,” Bucky says shakily. He normally hates feeling helpless, hates being dependent. But Clint is holding him so carefully, taking such good care of him. And Bucky trusts him.

Clint licks over Bucky’s hole, and Bucky twitches and whines, tries to move away from the unexpected sensation, but he can’t go anywhere, because Clint’s got him, and that makes him whine even more. He wants it. Fuck, he wants it.

“Touch yourself,” Clint says. “Get yourself off for me.” And Bucky fists his own dick as Clint presses a hot, filthy open-mouthed kiss to his hole.

*

Steve won’t admit it, but they all know he’s a glorified receptionist who only got his job because he’s fucking his boss. He acts like he has something to prove, like he needs to make sure they all get that he’s anti-establishment even though he wears button-downs and gets a steady paycheck working for the man. He’s always looking for ways to incorporate more art into his life, and his latest dubious venture involves a broken tattoo machine he dug out of the trash and fixed up. Bucky doesn’t especially want a tattoo when Steve suggests it, but he dutifully volunteers as victim anyway because Steve is still giving him grief eight months later for not being more supportive of the graffiti wall.

Their graffiti wall is still a sore subject. Steve had envisioned it as a community art project that people would add to each time they came over, leaving a piece of themselves behind for others to enjoy and appreciate and build on. But no one really got into it, no matter how many times Steve hopefully extended a marker or a can of spray paint to them. So Steve did the whole thing himself, an entire wall of their den covered in Steve’s spiteful graffiti, and they are definitely not getting their security deposit back.

“You don’t have to get a tattoo,” Clint reminds him as they watch Steve accidentally stab himself in his own thigh with the needle while tattooing a wonky heart in the middle of Tony’s chest.

“I told him I would,” Bucky says. Jesus, it’s a terrible fucking idea.

“What are you getting?”

“A little target. On my wrist.” He hopes Steve can figure out how to draw a decent circle.

“Why a target?”

“Because,” Bucky says, ducking his head and tracing concentric circles on Clint’s thigh. “Like the purple hoodie. Makes me think of you.”

“Babe,” Clint says softly. “Let’s go to a real tattooer. One with, like, colors. And, you know, a _license_.”

“But Steve--”

“Steve is going to give you hepatitis, and then he’s going to argue with you about whether buying your antivirals is just lining the pockets of Big Pharma.”

And, well. He’s not wrong.

“Do you know someone?” Bucky asks, only feeling a little bit guilty for letting Steve down. Whatever, Tony’s his boyfriend, more hepatitis for him.

“Of course,” Clint says, stroking the inside of Bucky’s wrist with two fingers. “Were you thinking here?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says breathlessly, his entire arm lighting up with _want_ from Clint’s gentle caress.

“Cool.” Clint slips his hand into Bucky’s and squeezes. “Maybe I could get one, too. One that lined up right with yours.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” Clint says, and he smiles crookedly at Bucky, and that’s his best smile. All of Clint’s smiles are amazing, but that’s the very, very best one. 

“Don’t you want to pick your own design?”

“I like the idea of yours,” Clint says. “Targets remind me of you, too.”

“Why?”

“I had my sights on you,” Clint says softly, “and now here you are.”

“You never miss,” Bucky says, and his heart beats faster with each word.

“I never miss,” Clint agrees, and he ducks his head and kisses Bucky’s forehead, his nose, the one place in his left shoulder where he knows Bucky still has feeling. “You’re my bullseye, baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://1000-directions.tumblr.com/post/183977906114/title-ever-fallen-in-love-with-someone-link-ao3)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] Mandatory Punk Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387236) by [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB)




End file.
